


Children from Before

by padaleksi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12x02, Gen, Good times, I'm trying to fight the writer's block okay, Mamma Mia - Freeform, also I adore Mary with all my heart, fuck the future, sam and dean are busy fangirling over their mom, she doesn't really know what the fuck to do with the future though, yay for 500-words prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 05:15:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8358730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padaleksi/pseuds/padaleksi
Summary: No amount of kissing it better can solve everything that's gone so horribly wrong during the past 30 odd years.





	

It’s surprisingly _(and tragically)_ easy to slip back into the role of a hunter. Adrenaline, blood, death – certainly not something she’s missed, but if nothing else it’s familiar.

And right now? Much easier than to be a mother. Because at the end of the day, it all boils down to one thing.

She doesn’t know how to fix them.

Hell, she doesn’t even know how to _help_ them.

She doesn’t know how to suddenly be a mother to two grown men who, admittedly, look at her as though she hung the moon and the stars and absolutely everything in between.

A few days ago she could find Dean hiding underneath the bed because he accidentally broke a vase or a glass, instead of now finding him sprawled out on the kitchen floor with empty bottles spread out at his feet. A few days ago Sammy woke up screaming at night because he was hungry or needed a diaper change, not because he’s recalling and reliving whatever torture and trauma that was bestowed upon him for **_days_**. A few days ago she could fix everything in their lives with a kiss and a kind word, because they were children and she was their mother.

No amount of _kissing it better_ can solve alcoholism or trauma or _everything_ that’s gone so wrong during the past thirty odd years. This isn’t a matter of boo boos in form of a bruise or bumps or scraped knees.

But she loves them, she’s sure of it. How couldn’t she?

They’re her _sons_. Her little boys. Her babies, damn it, her children that she carried in her womb and pushed into this godforsaken world and just days ago she was raising them, and – _(and she was raising them with **John** , and God, she misses him so much she’s sure she’ll spontaneously burst into tears at any given moment –)_

So, she loves her sons; loves them so fiercely it hurts to breathe, but… Her sons are supposed to be children, both of them easily carried and easily tucked into her arms, not these… These grown men, these _hunters_ , with their world-weary eyes and stubbled chins, broad shoulders and scarred bodies, clutching knives and guns instead of teddy bears and blankets. She tries to see her little boys in them, tries to find them in the color of their eyes and the slope of their noses and the colors of their hair, but she _can’t_ , and it _hurts_.

But she’ll try to be their mother _(what else is she supposed to do?)._ She owes them that much _(she’s the one who started all this – she’s the one who practically sold them all to Yellow Eyes)._

And perhaps… Perhaps, one day, when she thinks of her children, she’ll think of these tall strangers instead of her beautiful little boys from before.

But for now, she can retreat to her room _(with its blank walls and cold furniture),_ and weep for the children that remain lost to her forever.


End file.
